


Your Kiss Like Broken Glass

by geckoholic



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Casual Sex, Complicated Relationships, Consensual Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape Aftermath, They stay friends, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, if you can call it that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: Shorter doesn't know what they are, exactly, he just knows they aren't lovers. What they're doing, it's a favor between friends. A way to help Ash stay sane and reclaim, with every illicit fuck, something that's been stolen from him by every perverted old sack of shit who took him against his will.
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Shorter Wong
Comments: 12
Kudos: 129
Collections: The Not-Asheiji Bang 2019





	1. the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the NotAshEijiBigBang, because while I do love me some AshEiji here and there, my heart really landed with the rarepairs in this fandom. And this being a Bigbang, there's going to be some WONDERFUL art to accompany this fic; please stay tuned for links! The second part shall be up and ready by next weekend. 
> 
> Art by filly: [Leave](https://twitter.com/Arthemisi/status/1201186486877671427).
> 
> Partially beta-read by and brainstormed back and forth with AJ. Thank you very much! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Remind Me To Forget" by Kygo.

The first time it comes up, Shorter doesn’t quite know what to say, how to react. They're hiding out in the small backyard behind the restaurant, surrounded by the stink of the city that's somehow always more intense in its back-alleys, accentuated by notes of old grease and rotting vegetables. Shorter doesn't mind, hardly smells it anymore; this is where he grew up, where he played as a child. It is his home. And Ash, well, he hasn't complained about it yet either. He rarely complains about shit like that; although he stands out like a sore thumb in the midst of all that city trash, it often seems like he's reveling in it. Golzine's mansion is shiny and clean, on the surface. Here, no one tries to hide the ugly underbelly of the city or mask its less glorious corners. It's honest, straight-forward.

Shorter rubs his temples then burps. They ate too much and that tends to make him philosophical. Ash rolls his eyes at him and elbows him in the ribs. With an affronted huff, Shorter retaliates by getting him in a headlock. 

They scuffle for a bit, halfhearted, before they end up how they started: sitting side by side, shoulders touching, backs against the wall only a few feet away from the restaurant's dumpster. Only now they're out of breath, both their hair tousled, and Shorter can't stop laughing. He keeps patting Ash's knee, and it takes him a while to notice that Ash has fallen silent beside him.

He clears his throat to expel the last of his laughter, scrub the mirth from his expression, and then turns to Ash. “What's wrong?”

Ash stares at him intently, and Shorter really lost the thread here, can't figure out how they got from roughhousing and guffawing to somber this fast. 

"Do you like me?” Ash asks, toneless. “You know, like that?”

“Uh,” Shorter flounders. He takes his hand off Ash's leg, slowly, which only makes it more obvious. He tries to find something else to do with his hands and just ends up laying them flat on his own thighs. “You’re my best friend.”

That’s an answer, he assumes, and at the same time it isn’t, which is also a rather accurate mirror for his feelings on the matter. It hadn't occurred to him yet. He knows about the effect Ash can have on other people, but to Shorter he's just... well, Ash. As far as Shorter's concerned, what they are doesn't need any additional explanations. Seems Ash disagreed on that one, though.

Ash frowns, looking thoughtful, a bit detached. He then shrugs and slaps Shorter's shoulder, already pushing himself to his feet. “Come on, I want some more ice cream.”

Shorter takes a moment to blink at him before he forces himself to play along, to relax and get back to normal, reactivate their status quo. He gets up as well and scoffs. “You're already, like, twenty-five percent ice cream at this point. And you still haven't had enough?”

“Race you to the fridge,” Ash replies, and takes off down the narrow hallway that connects the backyard with the restaurant's kitchen.

***

The whole day had been a damn mess, it wasn't supposed to happen like that. The Lees had a shipment and Shorter's boys where called in to make sure it all went smoothly. With rumors about a new gang operating out of the harbor, Shorter called on Ash and a few of his boys to assist. The point was to avoid a ruckus, and man, did they fail.

Shorter finds bruises and scrapes in places he can't even name, his knuckles bloody and aching something fierce. His shirt was soaking in the sink to get the stains out, sprayed red all over. Most of the latter wasn't his blood, and it was always the mark of a shitty day when he had to make that distinction.

He screws his eyes shut for a moment, running a hand through his still-wet hair. It shouldn't matter: they won, the goods got to the Lees in one piece. The amateurs from that new gang shouldn't make another pass at their territory for a good long while.

In the bathroom, the shower keeps running. Shorter shifts on his chair to glance at his bedside clock – Ash has been in there for a good twenty minutes. Good thing it's summer; in the winter, the hot water would have run out a while ago.

“You about done?” Shorter yells at the closed bathroom door, reluctant to admit that he's getting antsy. He's heard enough horror stories about hidden injuries, internal bleeding, guys just falling down like a tree after a storm, and he's not all that keen on kicking the door in and checking if –

The water shuts off. “Yeah, yeah,” Ash yells back. “I'll be out in a minute.”

Shorter breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. It's enough you eat us out of house and home whenever you stay here, no need to triple our water bill as well.”

Ash laughs, and moments later he steps out of the bathroom. To Shorter's confusion, he does so stark-naked, hair dripping, water trickling down his skin in rivulets. This is... new. All the times he made use of Shorter's bathroom, he always emerged either fully clothed or at least in wide boxers and a shirt for bed.

“Forgot something when you went to take that shower?” Shorter asks, because this is too weird to not address it.

Ash shakes his head. “No,” he simply replies. “I didn't.”

There's a drawer that holds a few changes of clothes in his size, waiting right there in Shorter's dresser, and they both know it. However, Ash doesn't seem in any hurry to get dressed. He wanders the room as if looking for something, then finally stoops to rummage around in his backpack to pull out a comic book. That in hand, he flops down on the bed, belly down, still in the nude.

The curve of his body is beautiful. He's swinging his legs absent-mindedly, which somehow accentuates his ass. The muscles in his upper back shift every time he turns a page.

“Did you join a nudist movement and neglect to tell me?” Shorter inquires, trying for a joke. “Make the lives of all the creeps that are after you easier?”

Ash puts down the comic book and turns his head to look Shorter up and down. “Does it bother you?”

“Kinda weirds me out,” Shorter admits. He runs his hand through his hair again. It is in the way whenever there's no product to style the mohawk, and it's drying now, tickling the side of his face. “At least put on a shirt and some underwear, man.”

There's a long moment where Ash only stares at him, like he's waiting for some sort of cue. Then he sits up to face Shorter, making no effort to hide his bare crotch. He slides off the bed at the side facing the desk, putting his bare body in arm's reach, then takes his sweet time sauntering around the bed to the dresser. This detour, he could have avoided altogether, if he'd gotten off on the other side.

Shorter stands, the back of his neck prickling with discomfort. He doesn't want to hang around, watching Ash dress. It somehow feels worse than seeing him naked, more intimate and intrusive.

“I'll put that stuff in the washer,” he announces, hand already on the doorknob. “Nadia's gonna have a coronary if she's gotta deal with our bloody clothes again.”

***

All of Ash's lairs have one thing in common: they're shitholes. Extraordinary shitholes, shabby even for the glamour-less life of lower-end gangsters. 

As he hangs out with Ash and his gang, sharing takeaway pizza, Shorter finds himself wondering how Ash scrapped these guys together. They are ragtag and random, with no obvious common denominator. Their strength lies less in skill – although some have just that – but rather in their devotion. The commonality lies in their devotion to one boy. They are following Ash.

He's watching Ash kid around with Skip and Kong, grinning around a piece of pizza, when Ash's phone rings with a text. Ash digs into his pocket and reads the message on the screen. His expression changes from one-second to the next, glee replaced with something like grief, a stoic emptiness.

“Hey Shorter,” he says, and rises to his feet. “Wanna join me on a quick supply run?”

Shorter notices no one is grinning or giggling anymore. They all know what's going on, who sent that message, what it means. Shorter does not, although he's pretty sure he has just been invited to find out.

He pushes himself off the crate, throwing his half-eaten pizza slice back into the box. “Sure thing.”

They walk down the hallway in silence. In front of the building, a man's waiting for him. Roughly in his forties, fat and with a mustache. Shorter might have seen him around before.

“Sorry to cut your little escape to the city short,” says the guy, not sounding at all sorry. Rather, he seems gleeful. “But the old man's got a craving for you.”

Ash doesn't deign to look at him, nods back at the building. “Go and get them a few drinks, will you? Tell them I ran into someone on the way. I'll be back in two or three days, maybe four. They'll know what to do. It's not the first time.”

He waits for Shorter to nod and finally turns towards the guy. “Let's go, then, Marvin.”

Marvin pats Ash's lower back, so low he might as well have outright grabbed his ass, and receives a death glare but no resistance. Shorter's stomach churns. Whatever he'd be tempted to do here against one of Golzine's men though, would fall back onto Ash tenfold later.

He forces himself to walk the other way to hit up the corner store and give the boys Ash's message, just s as he had asked.

***

Shorter doesn't doubt that Ash's boys can survive by themselves, but tells himself it can't hurt to check. That's the only reason he swings by at least once a day. Everything else would be foolish. He never waited on Ash before, accepted long ago that being friends with Ash worked something like a pendulum. He would swing towards Shorter, and just when Shorter thought he could hold onto him, he'd swing away again. Shorter knew this wasn’t voluntary, but knowing is one thing, and seeing him being carded off to the old man for sex is another matter entirely.

It is still stupid. If Ash finds him here, best case scenario, he'll laugh him off.

Three days pass, then four. On the evening of the fifth, Shorter's phone rings during his shift in the restaurant, Ash's number on the display. Shorter immediately excuses himself into the kitchen and swipes to take the call.

“Heard you were looking for me,” Ash says, without waiting for a hello. His tone is impossible to read; he sounds somewhat amused, but also distant and calculating. Or maybe that's just the aftermath of how he spent the last couple of days, forcibly reminded of all the good reasons he has to be wary of everyone around him.

Shorter clears his throat. He looks down, kneading the back of his neck with one hand, as if Ash could see him. “I thought, you know, I'd – “

Ash interrupts him with a sneer. “Oh, stop it. Just get your ass over here.”

Knocked off course, Shorter grabs onto the next available excuse. “I'm still working. Nadia is gonna put my balls on the menu if I run out on her again.”

This time, Ash actually laughs, and it sounds a little more genuine. “As soon as you're done, then,” he says. “I'll be waiting.”

With that, he hangs up, and Shorter stares at his phone for a long moment before he pockets it again to get back to work. Maybe he ought to be pissed that Ash would assume he'd run over like that, on his beck and call, but he's too busy being curious. The three hours until closing time stretch out into an eternity.

***

Upon his arrival at the hideout, the boys point Shorter to Ash's room on the upper floor. They don't say much else, the mood is rather subdued. Maybe they know where their boss has been the past few days, what he's been doing, or they might not. Regardless, they must sense it wasn't anywhere good.

There's more than one room upstairs, yet it's easy to guess the right one. The door is slightly ajar, dim light shining through the gap. Shorter knocks, but does not wait to be told to step inside the room. He finds Ash curled up on a bare mattress. A book lies open in front of him, although his eyes are closed, his head resting on his crossed arms. Shorter is about to turn and return home to let Ash sleep, when Ash lifts his head and calls Shorter's name.

“I'm awake,” he says, pushing himself up on his elbows. The looks so tired, the kind of fatigue a good night's sleep wouldn't fix. It hurts to see that expression on someone so young, just as much as it had when they first got to know each other back in detention. This doesn't help making the whole scene any less surreal.

Shorter remains halfway into the room. “Why am I here? What's so urgent?”

“Nothing,” says Ash. He finally sits up all the way, pats the space beside him on the mattress. “Quit hovering in the doorway like that and sit down.”

A strange sensation, like ants crawling in his stomach, warns Shorter to think carefully about what might happen if he stays. On the other hand, he has no right to assume anything will happen. There could be any number of perfectly innocent reasons for this late night invitation, for Ash's behavior. Shorter can't come up with any on the fly right now, but still. Many good reasons.

He walks over and sits down, turning to give Ash a questioning look so Ash can explain himself. Ash doesn't explain anything, though. Instead, he reaches out to tilt Shorter's head down before leaning in. The kiss is anything but shy, anything but gentle, although it carries more determination than passion. It doesn't make Shorter feel wanted; rather, it makes him feel needed, in a way that doesn't have anything to do with lust. That’s why he doesn't break away, doesn't refuse.

In the end, Ash is the one who pulls away first. The expression on his face is unreadable, a bit like the eye of a storm; calm for now, but carrying the potential for total destruction, only a momentary respite before all hell breaks loose.

He wipes spit off his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles. “I'm tired. Will you stay with me tonight?”

Shorter nods. He can't do anything else. He doesn't have it in him to walk away. He lets himself be tugged at to lie down and closes his eyes when Ash curls against him from behind. They have shared a bed any number of times, but never like this. Never so close, never with so much implied intimacy. Shorter is curious and utterly terrified, absolutely powerless to deny Ash such a simple comfort.

***

By the time Shorter wakes in the morning, Ash is gone. Although not too far, as Shorter finds out when he yawns and stretches his legs, hitting something solid. Shorter pushes himself up onto his elbows and there is Ash, sitting at the edge of the mattress, cross-legged, reading the open book in his lap.

His hair is disheveled, sticking up in all directions. It's adorable. Shorter stifles a laugh behind his raised palm then pokes Ash in the lower back with his toes, this time on purpose. “What are you reading?”

Ash turns. “Camus,” he says, using the correct french pronunciation. “Been on my list for a while.”

He puts the book away with great care and crawls up the mattress, back towards Shorter, who opens his arms so they can curl around one another. But, Ash doesn't seem interested in that now. He straddles Shorter's hips instead and leans forward, nudging Shorter to lie down again. He stretches Shorter's arms out over his head and threads their fingers together, leaning down to kiss him.

The kiss isn't as sudden as the one last night, but every bit as demanding. Shorter's dick stirs with interest from the kissing and weight of Ash's body against his groin, and he tries to squirm away, maneuver them into a position that makes his growing erection less obvious.

Ash doesn't let him. He does, in fact, break the kiss and shift backwards so he can rub himself against Shorter even better. He's on half-mast himself, although Shorter doesn't dare assume it's anything else than a purely physical reaction. Warmth, pressure and teenage hormones, nothing more. Which might be somewhat stupid, given that Ash started this. All Shorter's done so far is reciprocate, keep pace.

“Don't you want me?” he breathes against Shorter's neck, in a tone that implies he's asked that very same question any number of times before and has yet to get rejected.

Shorter bucks upward, meant to startle Ash rather than throw him off altogether. “I do, but only if you want it, too.”

Ash's eyes go wide for a moment, before a warm smile settles on his face. Almost shy, a less-seasoned seductress more reminiscent of the expression he wears whenever Nadia invites him into the restaurant for free meal: disbelieving, grateful, relieved.

He sits back on his haunches and pulls his shirt off over his head. “I do, Shorter. I want this. I want you to fuck me.”

He gets to work on his belt, then the button and zipper on his jeans, while Shorter is still busy trying to wrap his head around it all. Same time yesterday, they were buddies, plain and simple. Beat friends who liked to hang out together, a relationship grown from mutual trust and respect. Now today...

What exactly are they, right now? Shorter watches Ash climb off the bed to strip out of his remaining clothes and is stunned that nothing much has changed. Ash is still his friend. Shorter still wants nothing more than to protect him and shield him from a world that wants nothing more than to devour him. He made it his mission to give Ash a few hour's respite from that reality every now and then, some normalcy amidst the chaos and the pain. As Ash sits back down on the bed, reaching out and wheedling his fingers underneath Shorter's shirt, Shorter suspects that what they're doing here, what they're on the brink of doing, isn't so different.

He sits up himself and pulls off his shirt, then lifts his hips so Ash can help him out of his jeans and underwear. They lie down side by side, looking at one another expectantly, and Shorter wants to laugh. They are so familiar with each other and yet this is so new and foreign. They have laid on Shorter's bed in much the same position any number of times fully clothed, talking and laughing or exchanging jibes. Now they are both naked, visibly and undeniably aroused, neither knowing quite how to cross that last remaining line in the sand and start touching each other.

Because it cannot be any other way in the end, it is Ash who captures Shorter's hand with his own and guides it to wrap around his dick. He guides Shorter through the first few tugs, then takes his hand away to pull Shorter half on top of him to kiss him instead.

They rather quickly dissolve back into rutting against each other through the kissing. Only now it's skin-on-skin, more direct friction. Emboldened by the need rising within him, Shorter lets a hand venture between Ash's legs, brushing it past his hole. Their eyes meet, and Ash nods. He produces condoms and a few sachets of lube from underneath the mattress. Undeniably, he planned this, and Shorter will have to give that some thought later. 

He rips one of the sachets open, pours the contents onto his fingers, and reaches down to share them with Shorter. He shows him, once again, how he wants to be touched.

The first finger goes in without much resistance, but Shorter can feel the rest of Ash tense at the intrusion. His thigh is trembling at Shorter's arm, which Shorter could chalk up as arousal and move on. He curls his fingers and it earns him a moan from Ash – too loud, like a performance, his expression vacant and neutral in spite of the noise he's making.

Shorter withdraws, waits for Ash to turn to face him, confused. “Ash, hey. Lie down comfortably for me, yeah?”

Technically he is already lying down, and so when he only stares at the request, Shorter runs his hands up and down his thighs, his arms, his sides, to smooth out some of the tension. He himself snuggles up against Ash's side, kissing his jaw, neck and shoulders. Slowly and gently, paying attention to the slightest sign of reluctance, he hooks his hand underneath Ash's leg and bends it back so he can press his fingers to Ash's entrance again. He works one finger inside and hooks it, drawing a startled gasp from Ash that peters out into a low moan when Shorter keeps pressing and rubbing right there.

“Relax for me,” he whispers against Ash's skin, and stops the half-turn Ash attempts at that by pressing his palm to Ash's chest.

“I've done this before, you know,” Ash protests nevertheless, sounding petulant. “No need to make such a big production out of it. I don't need to – “

Another curl of his fingers, and Ash falls quiet, sucking in a breath. “Yep,” Shorter confirms, pulling them out. “I know. So do you want me to keep going?”

Ash huffs, starring Shorter down for a long moment during which Shorter considers giving up. Get up and leave. Maybe he’s already pushed Ash too far, maybe continuing this would only damage him further, mess him up more . Or maybe a rejection now, this far into it, would send the wrong message. 

Shorter doesn't have a clue if what he's doing here is right or wrong, helpful or disastrous. He's relying on Ash to continue or call it quits, although he probably shouldn't. He should have told him no from the beginning, should have let Ash decide on the exact way he wanted it done, shouldn't have tried to take over the reins even though it was with the best of intentions. So many maybes, so many wrong options.

Eventually, Ash nods, tearing Shorter out of his spiraling thoughts. “Yes,” he simply says. “Keep going.”

Shorter smirks, even though he feels far too unsure and unmoored, for it to be even halfway convincing. Fake it till you make it and all. “Then relax,” he instructs again. “At least give it a try.”

Ash shifts around, stretches his leg out and bends it a little differently, turning to hide his face in the crook of Shorter's neck. He closes his eyes for a moment, but seems to rethink that one, looking up at Shorter instead. His expression seems curious if a bit unsure, thankfully that makes two of them. Shorter leans in, more a quick brush of the lips than a kiss, and rests his forehead against Ash's temple.

He pushes two fingers back into Ash's body, crooks them, then patiently works Ash towards a quiet orgasm. His moans get quieter throughout, not louder, but precious breathless little sounds punctuated by hot puffs of breath against Shorter's neck. Ash's climax is only marked by the way his body clenches around Shorter's fingers, one hand wrapping around his cock to jerk himself to competition.

He blinks up at Shorter once he's done coming, his lower belly stained with streaks of white. His hand rests loosely at his hip, spent cock nesting against the joint between body and thigh. It's the most beautiful Shorter has ever seen him.

It doesn't last, because Ash is crying. Silent tears that wet his eyelashes and spill down his cheeks, and Shorter's stomach churns with something like guilt. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course,” Ash snaps, instantly on the defensive. He moves away, pushes himself up into his elbows. His expression hardens, closed-off and on guard. Shorter understands; he's not used to showing his pain. He's never been allowed to, not without risking more hurt. “Why do you ask?”

Shorter reaches out to touch Ash’s face and gather up a few teardrops with the pad of his fingers. He holds them out to Ash, who rears back, staring at Shorter’s hand like he’s showing him something unbearably disgusting. Shame colors his face.

“I’m okay,” he insists again, even as he rolls onto his side. Making to sit up, he grabs his jacket to hide his nakedness before standing, wrapping it low around himself so it hides his backside and crotch from view.

Shorter attempts to hold him back with a hand on his wrist, but Ash flinches back so violently that one could think the contact burned him. Shorter immediately releases his grip.

“Let go. Don’t fucking touch me,” Ash's voice is low and dangerous, but also thick with more tears. He's not weeping quietly anymore, he's holding back sobs. “Leave.”

It makes Shorter ache to stay with him; to try and help, to hold him, to care for him, to somehow make it better. Leaving now feels like abandonment. But as with so many other things, that’s not Shorter's decision. If Ash doesn't want to share his agony, prefers to hide himself away and lick his wounds in solitude like the cat who lent him his name, then it wasn’t Shorter's place to argue.

He gathers his clothes, haphazardly gets dressed, and leaves.

***

For those who know him, Shorter is rather predictable. He is aware of this, and doesn't care how that might make him an easier target. Their lives are just like that, and he's always figured at least in a familiar place he can memorize the best routes of escape. Turn a flaw into an advantage, or whatever stupid stuff they'd call it in the movies.

But anyway, those habits. It's Friday night and he's sitting at his favorite fast food joint to have the best hot dogs in all of New York City, and his friends know where to find him. Ash is no exception, although Shorter would have given him a couple more days before expecting him to show up somewhere to make peace. It’s a pleasant surprise.

Ash plops down on the bench across from him, “Always with the extra onions. Your room is gonna turn into a gas chamber again.”

“What do you care?” Shorter grumbles between bites. “You haven't stopped by in a week.”

So maybe he's still pissed, although pissed might be the wrong word. Shorter is man enough to admit that he's hurt, but also plagued by a guilty conscience he doesn’t know how to assuage. It hasn't been a fun week.

Ash frowns. He rests his chin on his crossed arms and blows the hair out of his eyes, peering up at Shorter. “You're being dramatic.”

No, that won't work this time. He can't play cute-and-innocent this time and expect all to be forgotten, they need to have a real conversation or this will begin to fester between them. Shorter knows it's going to be painful, but avoidance isn't an option. Not this time, not if he ever wants to get rid of the mental image of Ash flinching away from him while holding back tears.

He swallows noisily and sets his hot dog aside. “That was a shitty thing to do.”

Ash rolls his eyes, a casual smirk on his face. “What? Throwing you out after a fuck? I didn’t know you were such a – “

“No,” says Shorter – too loud, with too much force, judging by the way Ash shrinks away from him. Yep, it was already painful. “Being dishonest. You could have told me you didn’t really wanna continue and I wouldn’t have pressed you. I fucking asked if you wanted it, more than once. No was an option.”

Ash stares at him and Shorter wonders what he expected, coming here. Business as usual? He's too smart for that. He must have known they'd have to sort this out before moving past it. Still, it visibly pains him, a storm of emotions rumbling underneath that weak disguise of a carefully blank expression.

“I thought you trusted me. That I...” Shorter pauses, balling his hands into fists under the table, a quick release for the disappointment that comes with the idea of not having earned Ash's trust, after all this time. “That you knew I wouldn't hurt you.”

Ash lifts his head and reaches across the table, but retracts his hand halfway there. He glances away, his gaze following the cook behind the counter as she puts a fresh load of fries into the oil. The sizzling noise that delivers the constant soundtrack for this place rises in volume for a moment, before it dies down again.

“I do know that,” Ash finally replies. “And I did want it. I just... it was the first time I did it voluntarily, okay?” He sighs. Shorter's stomach does an uncomfortable little lurch. “I thought... I wanted to know the difference. What it’s like if it’s someone I trust and not a disgusting old dude paying for it.” 

He tabs his fingers against the tabletop, silently following a melody Shorter doesn't recognize. Then he looks up, and Shorter almost doesn't manage to meet his eyes. “I haven't cried, afterwards, in a long time. It freaked me out. I'm sorry, and I’d understand if you didn’t want to hang out with me anymore.”

No, that's the opposite of what Shorter wanted to accomplish here. “Nonsense, of course I still want to be your friend. And maybe...” He runs out of words, fails to find a fitting description for what else they became that night, that morning; it's not lovers, Shorter knows that much. “You just gotta tell me what that was. Talk to me, man.”

Ash escapes into watching the happenings in the kitchen again, stalls by waving for the cooks attention and then signaling her his order – the usual, which means a plate of fries, a salad, and a soda for him. Shorter looks down at his own abandoned hot dog, he's not hungry anymore.

“If we do this,” Ash starts, his voice much quieter than before, “they don’t own all of me. It means my body isn’t just a thing they can sell, and sex isn’t just something I'm forced to do with Dino or his perverted customers .”

“Why me?” Shorter asks, voice equally low, a private conversation in a public space. But he doesn't need to hear the answer, it's there, in Ash’s eyes: there no one else he trusted the same way. He must have been aware of the explosive potential that step would inject into their friendship, but he was desperate enough to regain this tiny sliver of agency over his own body that he put it all on the line. That's one way to view it, at least – the other, the way Shorter prefers, is that he did indeed trust Shorter so much that he didn't worry it might break them.

Shorter shrugs his shoulders, trying to look nonchalant. Chances are it only looks ridiculous. “Well, do you want to try again?”

“No,” says Ash, a bit sheepish. “I don’t think so. At least, not anytime soon.” He cocks his head. “Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Shorter replies. He leans back, putting one boot against the dirty tabletop, then breaks into a grin – a bit forced, but the relief at having cleared the air, at least, is making him feel much lighter already. “So, kid, you paying for my dinner or what?”

Ash cringes and bats at Shorter's leg, glancing over to make sure the cook hasn't seen yet, even though Shorter is rather positive the cook won't care about the ratty old furniture in this joint. He shakes his head emphatically. “Fuck you, why?

“Your turn, that's why,” Shorter lies, kicking at him. Ash launches into a series of curses at how Shorter's got no manners also he's a damn cheapskate and can't count, and just like that things between them are back to normal.


	2. and an ending of sorts

It feels like they’re drunk on each other, sometimes. A world of their own, the real world present only on the fringes, and despite the grim reasons why they got physical like that in the first place, Shorter's come to crave that feeling – crave the heat of Ash's body against his own skin, the moments of exhausted intimacy in the aftermath. They do it every other night or go without it for weeks, depending on Ash's mood. The latter is better, Shorter knows, for Ash; that means he's been left alone, doesn't feel the need to have someone else's unwanted touch fucked out of his mind. Golzine lets him roam free more than he used to – lessons taught on the street instead of by expensive private tutors, Shorter guesses. He doesn't quite dare to hope for another option: maybe Ash will finally be lucky enough to age out of Golzine's preferred victim pool. Maybe the old creep is actually letting Ash go, little by little, extending the leash so much that sooner or later it'll slide out of his grip altogether. 

Not yet, though. 

Ash has been gone for four days, this time, and he shows up at the restaurant in the early afternoon of day five. He walks in with a quick wave and sits down, then stands up again, rattles around the place like he's only half-there – like he left the rest of himself in that mansion. Shorter stands watching him in that state for maybe twenty or thirty minutes, then he asks Nadia for the rest of the day off. She glances from him to Ash and back, and she nods, knowing, with the instinct of a parent rather than a sibling. 

They spend the day roaming around Chinatown and the lower East Side. They sneak into a movie theater for the sole reason of making out in one of the back rows. They hit a few bars and clubs, throw back a few drinks here, dance for a while there, but they don't linger. Around sundown, they're back at Shorter's place. 

Carefully, not to make a sound, Ash shuts the door behind them. There's no real reason for that – Nadia is the only other person in their shoddy little apartment and she must have overheard them before – but it seems important to him, today, to be invisible, inaudible, and so Shorter doesn't question it. Ash takes his hand and pulls him away from the door, directs him against the wall, and Shorter hisses as Ash's hand dives past his waistband. He'd be lying if he said it was unexpected, but he hoped... he doesn't know. He hoped for something slower. 

He’s long since figured out that Ash isn’t necessarily looking for soft comfort. He’s just looking for different; for someone who pays attention and adheres to his wants and needs, rather than enforcing their own. And more often than not, he needs it hard and fast, needs quick and vicious thrusts that make him lose himself in the brutal pleasure of it all. While that's all well and good, it isn't Shorter's favorite flavor. 

None of this is about Shorter, though, and so he leans into Ash's touch, lets Ash's clever and experienced fingers coax him into a full erection before he's even lost a single piece of clothing. 

Ash lets go of him, then, in order to strip himself. He hasn't switched on the lights and so Shorter can't look for marks on his body, a masochistic routine he's developed. He doesn't have to; doing it in the dim atmosphere of the street lights outside means they surely exist and Ash just wants them hidden. 

Shorter licks his lips, nervous, and Ash takes his hand with a smile. That's another trademark of these encounters, and one Shorter values; while Ash is allowed to be selfish, to call every single shot, it doesn't mean he's disregarding Shorter's feelings altogether. They both know Shorter remains acutely aware of how every misstep could hurt Ash in ways he can't even imagine – turn this distraction into a trigger – and Ash does reassure him whenever he notices. 

He waits until Shorter looks up, meeting his eyes, and only then places Shorter's hand on his crotch. He's not even halfway hard, but taking care of that – forcing that – isn't Shorter's job. Sometimes it doesn't matter. Sometimes Ash doesn't want to come, just wants to _feel_. 

Lube and condoms have long since been hidden in every crevice of Shorter's room, tubes and sachets, and so it's only a bit of fumbling in a nearby drawer before Ash has located both, squirting some lube onto Shorter's waiting fingers. It's cold and Shorter takes a moment to let it warm up on his skin. He wants to slow this down, take his time, rile Ash up with little touches, but that remains a fantasy tonight. He's familiar enough with Ash's body by now to be able to open him up quickly, and recognize the line between too much and just enough. 

He doesn't bother getting undressed, just pulls his zipper down and works his underwear down enough to pull his cock out, put the condom on. He picks Ash up and it seems to be just the right move, judging from the way Ash's legs close around his torso immediately. He walks them backwards until Ash's back hits the nearest wall, and it takes a bit of navigating to get lined up and push inside. 

Ash bounces up and down against the wall with the force of Shorter's thrusts, his arms hooked around Shorter's neck so that he doesn't lose his balance altogether. His nails are digging into the soft skin at the back of Shorter's neck, harder each time Shorter drives himself into his body. He's moaning, rising in cadence every time Shorter pushes into him to the hilt, buried deep inside, then pulls back out so only the tip remains inside and crashes back into him with no time left in between for Ash to catch his breath. 

All the while Ash's heels dig into Shorter's back, urging him on to go ever faster, ever harder, and it doesn't take long until Ash's body gets on board with the proceedings after all. Shorter looks down to find him fully engorged, precome glistening at the slit, and he keeps the violent pace up until he can feel Ash's body contract around him, can watch him come in hot stripes all over his stomach. The sight is what makes him follow, more than the increased pressure around his cock. 

He leans in to claim a messy kiss. Ash keeps holding onto him, head dipping forward onto Shorter's shoulder. He's panting. Shorter's arms burn with the effort of holding him up and Shorter's cock is softening inside him, making this a bit awkward, but he won't let Ash down until he's collected himself, until he signals that he's ready for them to part. Ready to get dressed, watch a movie, fall asleep on the bed fully clothed. 

Ready to forget what happens to him in that mansion and, just for tonight, be here in the moment with Shorter. 

*** 

The rain is so heavy that it functions like a curtain, blurring the city around him. Shorter desperately wants a smoke, like he hasn't in years – he started at thirteen, got out of the habit after his second or third stint in detention – but even if he'd be willing to let himself go this one time, the sheer humidity in the air would render that an impossibility. New York doesn't do anything halfway; not winter cold, nor summer heat, and certainly not rainstorms. 

He scoffs at the rain and walks out from under the marquee he's been hiding under for cover. The shop has been closed since last year, and unless its heir pays up, will remain that way for the time being. That's not his job today, however. Nothing so easy. 

His boys have the guy where Shorter wants him, roughed up, terrified, out of his depth. His fine, tailored suit is dirty and torn in places. Blood runs from a cut above his brow, mixing further down with more blood welling up from a spit lip, enough that the rain hasn't washed it away yet. He's trembling, clutches his leather briefcase like a shield in front of his chest. 

Shorter kicks it from his grip. He grips a fistful of the guy's graying hair and pulls his face up so he has no other chance than meet Shorter's gaze, see he means business. Beside him, Sing picks up the briefcase, tatters its content to soak in the growing puddles all around them. Shorter grins; the kid has good instincts. 

“See that?” he asks. “That's what's gonna happen to you if you don't stop the city building project in this neighborhood.” He yanks the guy's hair again, this time to direct his gaze towards the wads of paper drowning in dirty rainwater. “We'll come back, find ourselves a sewer to drown your yuppie ass in. You'll die with shit clogging up your lungs. Sound fun?” The guy shakes his head, hectically, desperately. “Well then, there you go. Find a reason why the property's not fit for a building project of that magnitude. I don't care what you do, just make it happen.” 

“Yes, yes, okay, yes,” the guy stammers, his hands coming up to wrap around Shorter's wrist, not to fight, but like a rodent trying to appease a predator. Pathetic. Shorter's about to let go of him, let his boys do the rest, drive the point home, when his gaze falls to a membership card in the half-empty, sodden carcass of the guy's briefcase. 

_Club Cod_. Anger wells up in his chest, and the mental images swim to the surface all on their own. He's never been there, isn't supposed to know. But he does know; he knows what happens in the backrooms of that club, knows what happened to _Ash_ there. 

His fist meets the soft flesh of the guy's face before he really knows what he's doing. He can feel bone crack under the impact, a broken nose at least. He punches again, again, not aiming all too well, just wanting it to hurt, to destroy. Sing is yelling from behind him, tugging at his arm. 

The fog clears as quickly as it came; he's got to stop. He can't kill the guy; that'd just mean they have to start again, find another city official as high up the ladder and as weak and susceptible to threats and blackmail, and the Lees wouldn't be pleased. Chances are they knew, well aware that they could get him on his taste for young boys if a beating didn't do the trick. Maybe they even got the information from Golzine himself, a favor for good business relations, but only to be used as a last resort. 

Shorter steps back. He wipes the rain from his face with his sleeve, stares at the blood on his hands. Not in regret; definitely not for bloodying them in the first place. For stopping, maybe. 

He shakes off Sing's hand on his upper arm and takes a deep breath. “Clean him up and get him home. The rest is up to the bosses.” 

***

Ash is dancing with Alex. His movements lack their usual elegance; for once they fit a lanky teen more than a trained whore. He's too high for his usual discipline, high on beer and cheap liquor and slightly more upscale weed, and his boys are eating it up. Those are the nights he truly becomes one of them, his hardened and bitter demeanor crumbling at his feet, survival no longer his main concern. And this is why they'd follow him to hell and back – not his intelligence or resourcefulness, but the knowledge that he belongs in their midst, that he trusts them, that he'd fight for them every bit as hard as they'd fight for him. 

Then Ash turns, directing a sloppy, lopsided smile at Shorter, and Shorter's heart stops for a few fractured seconds. He grins back and raises his half-empty beer bottle to him, but the expression falters the second Ash directions his attention back to his dance partner. Shorter takes a deep breath, and a large swig, and neither is quite enough to quench the longing that's taken residence in his chest. He's got some routine at fighting it down, but tonight it crawled to the surface and refuses to leave, and Shorter dreams. Daydreams as he watches Ash dance, about slow kisses and soft whispered words, driven by nothing else than the unsoiled desire to be together. About getting Ash out. Not like some white knight, riding-into-the sunset kind of fantasy – even in his dreams, Shorter's sticking to a sort of realism. Just making sure he doesn't ever have to go back to that mansion, or that club, or any of the other places that twisted his soul and invaded his body. 

Either way, it’s a foolish idea. Shorter sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Every beat of the music reverberates through his bones. It's too loud to think, too loud to do anything but dance or kiss or fuck, and of course that's by design. But he's shit at the former, and Ash hasn't been to Golzine's in a fortnight so the latter are off the menu as well, so Shorter mostly feels useless. Out of place. Too old, even though that's ridiculous. And most of all, he feels unfair, needy, wrong for the brief moment of regret that it's not one of those nights, that he can't be close to Ash like that tonight, even though it's a good thing. Every day Ash spends away from Golzine's clutches is a good thing. And Shorter isn't that kind of person, isn't so selfish. What he wants most, more than everything else he can't have, is for his friend to be safe from harm. 

Absorbed in his maudlin thoughts, Shorter didn't notice that Ash stopped dancing, that he and Alex returned to the others, that the music got turned down a little and that Alex is now loudly chatting to a few of his gangmates while Ash has made his way over. He waves a hand in Shorter's face and laughs when Shorter shudders in surprise and stares at him like he's just materialized in front of him out of thin air, like in a cartoon, with a poof and some mist to set the mood. 

Shorter mutters a curse and Ash keeps laughing, the kind that has him practically bowled over, hysterical. That's the weed. Shorter's been there. Everything becomes just so damn funny. 

He finishes his beer, wipes his mouth, and deposits the empty bottle on a wobbly stack of pallets that's serving as both cupboard and table around here. He inclines his head at Ash. “What?” 

“Let's get out of here,” Ash drawls, winding himself around Shorter's shoulders, all but climbing him like a tree. He nuzzles the side of Shorter's neck. He's so close, Shorter can feel the the tail end of those words vibrate against his skin as well as hear them; he really needs to stop doing that when they're not in bed together, because it fucks with Shorter's head. “I want to spend the night at yours. You have a real bed. Much more comfortable.” 

Hope wells up in Shorter, but it's short-lived, preempted by his conscience real fast. Ash is drunk _and_ high as a kite. Even if they're on the same page, if he ends up begging and prodding at Shorter for sex, there's no way Shorter could give in and still be able to live with himself afterwards. 

***

“This movie sucks,” Ash declares an hour later, sitting cross-legged on Shorter's bed, and reaches for the remote that's balancing on Shorter's knee. “I'll find something else.”

“Suit yourself,” Shorter says, jiggling his leg so the remote slides onto the mattress. “And good luck.” Late night TV doesn't offer a plethora of good options, but it's past 3 AM and they're both still much too wired to sleep and in dire need of some mindless entertainment. Figures that Ash would be picky about this, too, like he is about so much odd and random stuff. 

Ash shoots him a disdainful look, although he makes sure to brush Shorter's upper thigh as he dives for the remote, and smirks when Shorter shivers. But he pulls his hand back immediately, his attention diverted by channel-surfing, and Shorter tries not to assume any malice, any intentional tease, on Ash's part. The weed hasn't worn off yet. Chances are Shorter's too open in his reactions as well; the walk back here in the cold night air sure drove home the fact that at some point he must have lost count of how many beers he had. He's lightheaded, still moody with his heart on his sleeve, and it's dangerous. 

The images on the screen flicker past, accompanied by brief flashes of dialog or music, and it makes Shorter nauseous. His senses are over-satiated, have been all evening. He sits up straighter and rubs his eyes, the only reason he doesn't surge forward to reclaim the remote his roiling stomach. 

“Stop that,” he demands, futilely swatting at Ash from afar. Ash turns around and grins at him – of course, this too would be immensely amusing – but he leaves the last channel on for more than fifteen seconds and sets the remote aside for the moment. 

It's a telenovela, a real one, Spanish with subtitles in English that Shorter doesn't bother reading. A woman in a luxurious nightgown sits on a bed, and her lover, clad in a suit, the jacket askew as if they've been making out but didn't get very far, sits beside her. They both look very, very happy, smiling from ear to ear. They're holding hands. The sunset bathes them in warm, glowing light. They lean in toward each other, closing the distance, and kiss in the way people ever only kiss on screen. 

Shorter closes his eyes, and when he opes them again Ash has inched a bit closer to him, looking him up and down with his head tilted to the side. Then he glances back to the TV. It's showing the telenovela's end credits now, a cut of more sappy scenes, laid over with a passionate love song. 

“Do you think that's possible?” Ash asks, contemplative. “For people like us?”

The question comes out of the blue, and yet Shorter knows right away what he's talking about. This kind of love. This kind of happiness. Either that, or he's suddenly gotten it into his weed-twisted head to run away and become a telenovela actor, which, well, Shorter doubts it. 

“I wish it was,” Shorter says, unable to decide whether or not he wants Ash to pick up on how much he means it, on the truth behind those words. 

Ash looks at him for another long moment, his expression caught somewhere between forlorn and deep in thought, before he flops down onto his stomach and fishes around for the remote again. The next channel is showing some kind of wildlife documentary about penguins, and Ash starts giggling at something in the narrative that is, from Shorter's marginally more sober point of view, not the least bit funny. 

***

For some reason, it had never occurred to Shorter that whatever he was in the process of maybe starting to feel would be a mutual development. Yet, now, upon reviewing that short exchange over people emoting in Spanish, the possibility got stuck in his head, and he excuses himself after the lunch break rush and goes for a run, taking some time alone in order to mentally rifle through a few what-ifs. 

What if he's got the entirely wrong expression and Ash would be disgusted by him if he brought it up, disappointed, betrayed. What if he'd feel pressured, or guilty, and give it a go just for those reasons. But also, what if it's true. What if they could have something more, something that might almost taste like love. 

And that's another argument against it: their world isn't kind to those who find themselves in love. In their world it's a weapon, a pressure point. Neither of them would know how to handle a relationship either; Shorter had Nadia, at least, but all Ash ever had was pain and abandonment and betrayal and people treating him like a commodity or a piece of merchandise. They'll hurt each other. He doesn't know exactly how, but he knows it'd be inevitable. They work as friends, _because_ of the lives they lead. As lovers, those exact circumstances would be their downfall. 

Shorter stops, stands by the side of the river, breathing hard, and crouches down. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He closes his eyes and exhales. There's still one question that needs an answer, going forward, even if he'll never breathe a word about it all to Ash, and that's whether or not Shorter's feelings might render their current arrangement impossible. Whether or not he could stand sleeping with someone he loves, knowing he might not be loved back in the same way. Whether or not the idea of someone else's hands on Ash's body will finally drive him insane if they continue. 

It's not even a question, really. Shorter is self-aware enough to know the answers already. 

***

The next time Ash disappears, it doesn't last very long at all. Over the weekend – Shorter might not even have noticed, hadn't Ash canceled on him as an additional waiter for an event at the Chang Dai. Shorter had been rather looking forward to that one; he expected he might finally get to see the great Ash Lynx fumble his way through something he never learned how to do, while Shorter grew up helping out in the restaurant. 

Instead, he shows up at Shorter's door Sunday night, doesn't say a word in reply to Shorter's greeting, doesn't move, and shies away from Shorter's touch as the latter pulls him through the open backdoor and ushers him up the stairs. 

Shorter switches on the overhead lamp as soon as they're in his room, and Ash flinches, blinks at the sudden bright light. His gaze unfocused, looking through Shorter, he pulls his jacket tighter around himself. The collar is popped, but there’s a bruise too high on his neck that he’d have any chance of hiding it. He reeks of sex and musk and sweat not his own. His wrists, peeking out from under the sleeves of his jacket, carry rope burns. He looks like he threw his clothes on haphazardly, a desperate escape just as soon as the monster's lair spit him out. Without them, Shorter somehow knows, he'll see Ash carry more marks. Worse marks. Intimate marks. 

This isn't the first time. Shorter knows that too. Golzine might have claimed Ash as his very own toy, but that doesn't mean he won't make a spectacle out of him now and then. Keep a camera rolling while it happens, too. Shorter's heard rumors. They all have, even though, around Ash, they pretend it's not the case, in order to let him maintain his dignity. Pretend like there aren't hours of footage of him all over the internet, being whored out, displayed, the target of kinks Shorter doesn't have the mind to imagine. 

Except, right now, there's no pretending. The truth is right in front of him, marked upon Ash's body. There are tear tracks on his face, too, and that, somehow, seems like the worst violation of them all. 

The smell of the men who used Ash tonight makes Shorter nauseous, and he figures it doesn't feel much better for Ash to still carry the stench of their release around on his skin. He gently nudges Ash towards the bathroom, and after a moment's confusion in which Ash just stares at him blankly, Ash gives a small nod. 

He holds still while Shorter undresses him, careful not to touch him more than absolutely necessary. The more naked skin he uncovers in the bright, unpersonal light in the bathroom, the more he reveals a play-by-play of everything that happened to Ash tonight. Today. During the weekend. Shorter has no first clue for how long it must have gone on. 

Once Ash is standing in the middle of the bathroom, naked, shivering, Shorter quickly undresses as well. He climbs into the shower first and holds out a hand, and Ash takes it, following him under while Shorter turns on the faucet, adjusts the temperature. He hands Ash the shower gel, which earns him little more than a blank stare. He's in shock. It's impossible to imagine, how that could still happen, and a kind of blank rage raises in Shorter, the desperate wish to tear everyone who played a part in this – no, everyone who ever touched Ash at all – limb from limb. He swallows that down; his ire won't help Ash right now, and it's pretty much futile anyway. Neither of them is in the position to exact any kind of revenge, here. 

Shorter squirts some shower gel into his own hand and starts washing Ash, very carefully, aware of every hiss and flinch and keeping a keen eye on Ash's reactions. He starts with his hair, then his chest, his arms and legs. He saves the worst for last; hopes the entire time that Ash will come back to himself enough so he can do that by himself. 

He doesn't, but he spreads his legs for access when prompted, his movements detached and mechanic. Shorter tastes bile in the back of his throat. Only when he's done, about to turn the faucet off and lead Ash to get toweled off, the latter comes back to life. 

He grabs Shorter's wrist, still hovering around his hips, and turns halfway around in Shorter's arms. “Fuck me.”

The demand is toneless, and yet manages to sound desperate. Shorter's eyes flick downward, to the marks that speak of the most intimate of hurts inflicted on Ash tonight. He swallows hard, can't even wrap his head around the idea of fucking Ash like this. He must be in pain. He must be... Shorter can't follow the thought to its inevitable conclusion, horrified. 

He shakes his hand free. It's not too difficult; Ash's hold is rather weak, considering the strength Shorter knows to reside in Ash's fragile-looking frame any other day. “No.”

And all of a sudden his usual attitude floods back in, his pride, his defiance that he throws in the face of everyone who mentions his past, his present, the things he's made to do in that mansion. “Screw you, then. Asshole. What do you think I came here for?” 

_Comfort_ , is what Shorter likes to think. _Safety._ He doesn't say that out loud, watches as Ash stalks climbs out of the shower, grabs a towel from the rack above the radiator. Waits, counts to ten, then twenty, then sixty, and follows. 

He finds Ash sitting on the bed, the towel discarded beside him, hunched over, head in his hands. His face is dry, no more tears, and Shorter is stupidly glad about that. 

“You can stay here as long as you like,” Shorter says, sitting down on the bed as well, though keeping his distance. 

Ash doesn't look up. “I know.” 

Shorter inches closer, a little, hovers just out of range for their shoulders to touch. “Do you need anything? Food? Something to drink? A smoke? Something to punch?” 

Ash snorts, shakes his head. “No, I'm okay.” 

That's more than doubtful, but Shorter nods. He puts his hand on the sheets between them, palm upwards, an offering, and relief washes through him with stupid, embarrassing intensity when Ash takes it, squeezes it tightly. 

“Shorter...”

The plea in the way Ash says his name sends a shudder down Shorter’s spine. He disentangles their fingers, runs his hands up Ash’s side and starts talking, babbling almost, a ceaseless string of reassurances, mixed in with Ash’s name, _I’m here_ and _shhh it’s me_ and the such like. Pulls him back gently so that they can lie down, spreads the covers over them both. Anything, everything to ground Ash in the here and now. 

He doesn't know for how long he keeps that up, but at some point, Ash's breathing evens out in a shallow, restless kind of sleep, and a little while later Shorter can't stay awake anymore either. 

***

Shorter wakes up to an empty bed. Briefly, panic threatens to overcome him, but then he corrects himself; Ash knows how to handle himself. Even if he ran out during the night that doesn't mean Shorter's got any reason to worry about him. He's learned to lick his wounds and move on since before Shorter ever met him. The previous night was bad, no doubt about it, but for Ash it was merely the latest terrible night in a long string of them. 

Things are a little different when it comes to Shorter. He's rattled. He can't keep the images – both actual and mental – out of his head. 

After a piss and a quick cat bath, he pulls on sweatpants and a t-shirt and pads downstairs into the restaurant kitchen. They're not open yet, but there's always something to prepare in the morning. It won't be the worst use of his time, helping Nadia out. 

Except Nadia's already got help – and someone feasting on the leftovers from the previous night that she sometimes keeps in the fridge. Her and Ash sit at the counter in companionable silence, Ash bent over a box of cold fried chicken noodles and a spreadsheet, twirling a pen in the hand he doesn't need to shovel food into his mouth, while Nadia sorts away a delivery and calls out each item from a large cardboard box so that Ash can tick them off on the spreadsheet. 

And somehow that's when Shorter knows. The decision that seemed so agonizing before is clear as day.

These are the two people in this world Shorter would move heaven and earth to protect, and to keep it that way, he needs to take a step back. Be Ash's closest friend, his most trusted person, and nothing more. Go back to the way they were. He knows it's possible; granted, most friendships never involved casual comfort sex, but most friendships also don’t involve what Ash has been through – what he's still going through. 

He calls out Ash's name, nods towards the backyard when Ash turns his head, still chewing on a mouthful of food. It won't be an easy conversation. He knows that, feels the skin prickle with it all the way down his back. A small part of him wants to be a coward about this one thing, postpone it, let himself have one more night with Ash, a little more time. But Shorter's not the kind of guy who tends to shelve a confrontation. That's not him. It's not Ash either, unless there's a strategic advantage to be gained. They need to get this over with _now_.

Seemingly oblivious, Ash plops down in the dirt, his back against the back wall, his legs spread out in front of him. Most other people wouldn't notice the second's worth of discomfort, of pain, that flickers over his face as he makes contact with the dry, hard ground. Shorter does. 

“What's up?” Ash asks, looking up at Shorter, one eyebrow raised in question. 

Shorter sits down beside him. He's not taking any time to plan or weigh his words; it's best he gets this over with quickly. “I'm not going to fuck you anymore. That's done. I'm not comfortable with it any longer.” 

Something like regret shadows Ash's face. He pales, swallows visibly. “If that's about last night – “

“No,” Shorter interrupts. “Yes, kinda, but there's more.” Now he hesitates, unsure how to proceed. He wants to be honest, but the words _I'm falling in love with you and it's twisting me up inside_ , said out loud, not to be taken back, won't help either of them. Chances are Ash already knows. If he hasn't picked up on it before, in any case, he might put two and two together right now. “I...” Shorter starts, then hesitates. “I just can't.” 

Ash frowns, watching him. He takes a breath and releases it a heartbeat later, his chest expanding with it under the thin shirt, oversized shirt he's wearing. He looks away, but he doesn't rise to his feet, doesn't run away, doesn't yell or curse Shorter's name. He just sits there, looking somewhat defeated, and despite the knot in his own stomach Shorter knows they'll be okay. Not immediately, and not without a bit of effort. They might be looking at a rocky road for a while there. But they'll get through it, Shorter will make sure of that. Because he won't let go. Because they're friends; always have been, always will be. 

Best friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [dreamwidth](https://geckoholic.dreamwidth.org/), [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacenerdz).


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